


Out

by ladysisyphus



Series: Wolves [5]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:31:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1885257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He waited right until he heard the springs of the motel room's bed creak, then depressed his thumb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out

He waited right until he heard the springs of the motel room's bed creak, then depressed his thumb. The little lamp's cheap-ass bulb had been not even enough to read comfortably by earlier -- eyestrain, you'll give yourself like that, said the voice of his mother in his memory -- but he might as well have thrown the switch on a spotlight instead for the way Wrench froze, one leg under the covers, blinking as his eyes adjusted.

Where did you go? Numbers signed, or at least thought he signed, though Wrench's eyebrows drew into furrows. No, that last sign had come off as 'him'; no wonder Wrench was confused, if Numbers was asking about the location of imaginary people. He tried again: Where did _you_ go?

Wrench had two basic faces: resting mean and just plain mean. Numbers couldn't quite tell which one he was getting right now. Went out, Wrench told him, then punctuated it with a definitive O-U-T.

"No shit," said Numbers. He was trying to break himself of the habit of speaking when he signed, so he shut his mouth tight before asking: Why?

Bored, Wrench signed. He didn't look bored, though. He looked a little roughed up, with a patch on his cheek just below his left eye that glowed pink with fresh injury. He didn't _smell_ bored either, and that was by God the oddest thing Numbers had ever thought about another human being in his life. Wrench's hands moved in a way Numbers didn't catch, and when Numbers frowned, Wrench sighed and did it again: Thought you were asleep.

That had been the problem, too -- he _had_ been asleep. He'd stripped down to as little as he ever slept in (having learned his lesson about that the hard way) and conked right out for _maybe_ five minutes, watching CNN with the sound off and the closed captioning on, which was now a thing he did without thinking. When he'd woken up, the room had been empty and the TV had been turned off, and there was no fucking way he was going back to sleep after that, not with his crazy deaf kid partner just up and vanished.

Maybe he'd gone out for a cigarette, had been Numbers' first five minutes of rationale. Gone to the store for a beer had taken up the next fifteen minutes of theory, even though the keys to his car were still there and they were in one of those Upper Bumfucks where the combination of law-abiding and God-fearing meant that a drink wasn't always an easy find. After half an hour of lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, Numbers had run out of explanations. Nothing for it, then, but to wait.

Awake, Numbers told him without context. Maybe he _should_ give the whole stupid saga of waiting and fretting; just get him something to write on and he'd pen a 'don't you worry me like that' guilt trip to beat the band. Fuck, he was turning into his mother.

Wrench brought his fist to his chest: Sorry. Numbers had learned _that_ one real quick.

Okay? You okay? You?

Fine, Wrench told him as he climbed into bed. He folded his hands together over his chest as though to say, conversation's over, good night, shut up. There was a little wine mark right above the collar of his shirt. Numbers' first thought was that it was a thumbprint bruise, that Wrench had gotten himself grabbed in the throat by a right-handed heavy. The more obvious explanation was not currently on the table for consideration.

Numbers waved his hand until he got Wrench's attention, and when he had it, he executed as best he could the sentences he'd been composing there in the dark for those missing hours: Together. You and I, we go out together. Safe together. 

Deaf people had animated faces! Expressions were a vital part of communication! At least that's what the library ASL primer had said in the introduction. An upward flick of the eyebrows was the best he got out of Wrench: You afraid?

_No_ , Numbers shot back, snapping his fingers shut with enough force to show absolutely not, never, not remotely, why would you think that, don't think that. Then he sighed: You were hurt, maybe.

Wrench full-on rolled his eyes at that, a universal sign if ever there was one. Go to sleep, he signed, and he leaned over and slapped off the light.

Numbers slapped it back on, and oh, now, _that_ was just plain mean he was seeing. _You_ go to sleep, he signed with childish force, then hit the light switch again. So what if it was a petty way to get the last word? He'd gotten it.

Or he had until the light came on again a half-second later. I'm going to sleep! signed Wrench, who somehow managed to slap his hands together somewhere in there for punctuation, which Numbers thought was a neat trick, albeit one that ran totally contrary to the sentiment being expressed. His nostrils flared and his curly hair made a wild, messy halo around his head. He looked wild, almost feral, like some predator full of blood and aching for a fight.

_You_ go to sleep, Numbers repeated, then reached behind the bedside table and yanked the lamp's cord from the wall. He was certain Wrench could keep things going past that setback if he wanted to, but he was going to require some extra effort be put into it.

But Wrench settled down in a giant huff and rolled away to face the wall, then yanked all the covers over him so nothing but the uppermost locks were visible in the pale, oily orange streetlight that bled in around the motel drapes. "I am going to kill you and feed you to sharks," Numbers said aloud, not because he meant it or even really had been thinking about it, but because ... well, because he didn't know why, that was why. Because he was frustrated for reasons that were both vague and paralytic. Because he felt like he'd been knocked back to kindergarden, learning to express the world like _See Dick run_. Because neither bruise would heal by morning.

" _Sharks_ ," he repeated, making giant chompy hands that were more appropriately how to mime a crocodile. But it didn't matter, not right now. In the dark, he was as good as alone.


End file.
